


To Find a Worthier God

by zenzop



Series: Nazi gets bullied [1]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Also a communist so no apologies for my lack of sympathy, I'm a queer person converting to Judaism who is fascinated by how suicidal and stupid Nazism is, Look me in the eyes and tell me he deserves comfort, Look me in the eyes and tell me he deserves it from me, no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26230813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzop/pseuds/zenzop
Summary: "The ur-fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death."Other people seemed to catch onto this fact relatively quickly.
Relationships: I'd feel bad tagging this Left Unity without warning you it is not the focus
Series: Nazi gets bullied [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123514
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	To Find a Worthier God

**(Tw//Discussion of suicidality, discussion of Nazism, discussion of historical deaths due to violence/war (implied to be WW2 specifically), mention and usage of alcohol and marijuana, includes intoxicated characters)**

He was sneaking in the door in the evening - it could be more described as night, with it being one in the morning, and he saw the lights on in the living room, which could only mean one thing. It meant they were up, using the couch instead of hiding themselves away in their room like he would have liked, but they would never agree to. And he opened the door to hear them talking, silently pausing a moment in the doorway to hear what they were saying.

“You know, I swear, I swear to fuck, I see him looking at that gun a little too long sometimes in the mornings,” a voice with a higher-pitched tone rang into his ears.

“What do you mean?” A Russian accent cut through, inquisitively.

“I’m not fucking joking, I promise, I swear to fuck, he’s miserable, he can’t be - like that and not be miserable. It’s a borderline suicidal ideology, you can’t be like that and be happy. It’s a worldview that rejects happiness, inherently, always. It’s unsustainable. It’s authoritarian, and it’s hierarchical and it rejects anything good about the world as “weak” and “useless” - how the fuck are you supposed to walk around like that not half-dead?”

The voices paused a moment.

“I suppose I just can’t let go of the idea that he’s somehow salvageable.”

“I’m not saying he’s not, I’m just saying he’s fucking miserable and I can tell.”

By this point he knew, had to know, they were talking about him - even half-drunk he could see that, as his body sagged into the doorframe, attempting to stay upright. The living room already smelled like pot - he could already tell which of the two he was going to yell at in the morning, once he sobered up.

“I just wonder what made him like that - he’s so fucking emotionally repressed,” their voice coughed from the other room, “I don’t even know how he does anything without blowing up at something.”

“You’ve seen him do anything without automatically getting angry about it?” The Russian accent cut through, smug in its tone.

“I’m just saying - what the fuck made him like that?”

“Maybe his parents were - I don’t know, broken up or something. Most kids who join hate groups, it's usually because of something at home. Cults have the same recruiting territory.”

“Yeah, but I’m from a bad home, and I haven’t done shit like what he’s done.”

“And you’re the pinnacle of mental health.”

“Can you go one conversation without being like that about something?”

The deeper voice cut through, seeming to ignore the commentary, “It’s basic base-superstructure - capitalism reinforcing itself through fascism, its last-ditch ideological attempt at shrugging off historical materialism. It’s not supposed to be sustainable. Nothing in capitalism is sustainable. It's just capitalism taken to its natural end - imperialist and dogmatic and cruel for no other reason than to keep itself alive and running.”

The man in the door laughed lightly to himself. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it’s what he would perceive as idealism getting to him, had to be laughable - wouldn’t fit into his worldview otherwise (Although he could already hear the Russian man' voice ringing through his head - "isn't the idea that capitalism is going to last forever idealistic?" before it began muttering something about contradictions in capitalism and the science of dialectics. You had to wonder sometimes if even he knew what he was talking about).

“Just sad that it has to filter so many bodies through itself to keep itself alive in the meantime - taints so many minds to keep itself alive, doesn’t make sense to me. Tries to drag himself to an early grave every day and is insistent on dragging us with him, or sending us to die, or letting us starve to death, and doesn't see how violent and unnecessary all of it is.”

“Oh, you’re going to mourn the fascist now?”

A bottle was heard passing between the two, the lighter voice taking a swig before calling out a hoarse, “Fuck no. You’re the one telling me he’s “salvageable”.”

“And you’re supposed to be the one who believes in transformative justice.”

"I do. He's a victim of something who is victimizing others, I can acknowledge that. But he's not just a fascist, some scared little kid dropped off on the front lines. He's fascism. The idea. He has no place in a free world," they cried out, “You're the one who keeps bragging about shooting him at Stalingrad whenever you're drunk enough.”

And that’s about when he slammed the door, and threw his boots on the ground before climbing the stairs in front of a silent audience of two, both of whom, from the second he gleaned of them, looked rather shocked at his appearance.

He didn't cry when he got upstairs, he hadn't properly cried in - decades, maybe. He was proud of himself, in a way, for having lost the ability. But he fell into his bed, in the dark, and felt - honestly and properly lonely for the first time in years, as much as he could feel anything anymore. He was slipping, he knew that, and other people had the ability to catch onto it.

Was there a possibility of redemption for him? Part of him didn't care, or was too drunk to try and do anything close to "caring" tonight.

He was raised Lutheran, his father made sure of that. Stopped believing in saints and sinners (and, around the same time, stopped believing in good fathers) long ago, right back in the early 1900s.

It was strange to think this was the first time he let himself wonder about heaven or not - what afterlife was there, for a man who made brutality his God? What was he expecting heaven to look like? In the quiet moments the thought has to sneak in. What could he expect of this life and in the life after, what future was there for him. It was all nonsense, of course, but - a thought nonetheless. It wasn't as if Christianity made men more moral, by any stretch of the word - he'd seen his peers and compatriots do the most awful things to the bodies and minds of the people around them and still pray at night as if it made a difference, restoring some aspect of their souls. But what did morality matter to him anymore?

Too late to wonder whether this was what he wanted, anyways. You start letting yourself wonder whether or not you wanted to be a fascist and suddenly you realize nobody really wanted fascism at all. You did what you did to protect the hierarchies you are on top of because they’re yours, very little other reason to it, and may death come to anyone who tries to take what is yours.

That’s what it was, ultimately - keeping what is yours, through any means necessary, because otherwise, you realize that your place in society isn’t naturally appointed, but more so just how things turned out, and suddenly you realize the nation you were putting your life on the line for was only ever a flimsy concept held up by your ignorance and pettiness and malicious stupidity. Questions weren’t what kept an ideology like his going.

He did, in fact, take his gun out of his pocket, and he did stare at it for a good long while, longer than he allowed himself to at the dinner table. Wondered what he had dedicated himself to, all the good it did for him. He was losing his edge. And, sure, he had died before, many times before (that Russian bastard has an aim that serves him well, but was terrible news for any nazi who came within one hundred yards), but it wasn't - permanent. Wasn't restful. You got up and you did it again, picked up a rifle and you kept fighting. Got used to the idea the world never got to be quiet, really.

He fiddled with the trigger, drunkenly, not bothering to aim it anywhere. Maybe it would be right for him to retire.

Two sets of footsteps made their way up the stairs, two voices carried with them, muttering something about “maybe we should go apologize” followed by “no, no, he’s probably half asleep by now” and quick a “He doesn’t deserve it anyway".

He could still hear sparse laughter from the hallway as he lifted the silver of the gun to the space above his eye line, the glint of it catching in the light from the streetlamp from outside, accepting, then and there, drunk as he was, somewhere inside of him that it was too late for him to be better.

What a convenient excuse for him to not try.

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could get an editor to look over this to make sure I'm conveying the right message but I feel like asking someone to look over my piece written from the perspective of a Nazi would raise some eyebrows.
> 
> So if I did anything wrong, draw and quarter me in the parking lot behind your local Denny's. Might post a chapter two, I don't know, who knows anything anymore.
> 
> Title is from Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett


End file.
